


Dracones et Regulus

by cr0wned



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cr0wned/pseuds/cr0wned
Summary: Or, the Dragons and the Prince.Roman’s great-great grandparents slew the dragon witch and her armies, putting an end to the age of the dragons and securing the throne for their line. The kingdom of Imagis seems a fairytale world, ruled by beloved monarchs and protected by knights in shining armor. It certainly seems that way to Prince Roman -- until the night the castle is taken by force and bloodshed. Now the sole survivor of his family, Roman flees across the land until he finds himself trapped by dragons. A fitting end, perhaps, for a prince.Virgil and Janus will do anything to keep their family safe, but they never stood much of a chance against the combined forces of Logan’s curiosity and Patton’s compassion.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Paths Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: If you use those labels, I believe Virgil and Janus (and even Logan, briefly) may be considered unsympathetic in the beginning. Nothing irredeemable, and they do get better, but y'know. Just in case. The enemies in enemies to friends is not all that fluffy.
> 
> Also, I have a rough outline for this but that rarely saves my stories from being abandoned for ages because I lost motivation, so... be aware that updates may be sporadic.

Prince Roman lost his pursuers a week from the capital.

He kept going. 

Every hooded figure glanced from the corner of his eye had him flee whatever town or village he had stopped at to stock up on supplies and catch some much needed sleep. By week three he avoided civilization altogether, making camp on the outskirts, in caves and wooded groves.

Week six and he was found, in a tiny place of a village, nothing but a handful of houses huddled around a muddy market square with sprawling fields on all sides. Somehow, a trio of the usurpers’ mercenaries had tracked him there, to this nowhere village that probably wasn’t even marked on maps. They struck under cover of night, under an inky sky speckled with stars that seemed cold and uncaring where they had been beautiful once.

Roman won the fight even wielding a blade that was not his own, even exhausted from over a month of little sleep and less rest, of near-starvation and constant travel. He was, after all, a skilled swordsman, one of the finest knights the kingdom had to offer, before he was a prince.

It hadn’t been enough to save anyone when the usurpers had struck.

A real prince should have, would have, fought until the bitter end. But so many had died to prevent that, so many were cut down and telling him to run because the rest of the royal family and their advisors were dead and at least one of them had to get away…!

Last wishes were special. Last wishes that people died for even more so. And so Roman had run. That reasoning was sound. Roman hated it, just as he hated how he couldn’t bear to look at his felled enemies because every time he did he saw his dead friends’ blank, gore stained faces superimposed on these strangers.

Roman turned away from the three rapidly cooling bodies spilling crimson at his feet like the coward he was.

He had not made it out of this fight unscathed, but he welcomed the pain. His side felt warm and sticky where his enemy’s sword had found him. Breathing made his rib cage throb and burn, the pain concentrated in two points where ribs were likely cracked or outright broken. It felt almost like some sort of penance for a wrong he had committed that was so great he would never be able to fix it.

He needed to keep moving.

The village was nestled against the border of a great forest that had a name Roman couldn’t remember, but he did know that it was big enough to disappear in. Certainly dangerous enough, too. This was the kind of forest brave youths ventured into to prove their mettle against the creatures that stalked civilization from the shadows. The kind of place Roman would have loved to go explore before… before.

He gripped the strap of his pack and started walking.

There was a path leading between the trees, dirt trodden into a trail by generations of feet following in the steps of their forefathers. It led him not far at all, ending at a logging site that lay still and abandoned at the late hour. There was no path going further. Light underbrush stretched out between the tree trunks in every direction.

Roman chose to keep heading the direction the path had led so far, directly opposite the treeline and the village, and kept walking.

~ ~ ~

Dawn broke.

Then the sun was high in the sky, hot and burning, but the leaves high above shielded him from the worst of its rays. Heat still built, probably only intensified by the foliage trapping it, and soon enough Roman was sweating.

His side throbbed.

Breathing still hurt.

Daylight faded and Roman kept walking.

He didn’t keep track of time for a good long while and when he did force his tired brain back into focus it was day, somewhere closer to sunset than noon if he had to guess. Green surrounded him on all sides, moss and leaves and bushes; birds were singing somewhere and eventually he recognized the buzz in his ears as the sound of insects. He noticed something else he could hear, too: the rush of water. It was enough to draw attention to the way his tongue sat in his mouth, too dry and too big. His throat felt raw -- how had he not felt that before?

Roman was stumbling toward the sound without any conscious decision to do so. It originated from a stream of clear water running across a bed of smooth grey stones. Once more there was no thought, just instinct, when Roman fell to his knees, plunged both cupped hands into the cold liquid and started guzzling it down.

It was a cool, blissful balm on the parched insides of his mouth and throat and Roman did not stop until he felt like he might puke. Only then did he lean back -- and noticed that he had managed to spill enough down the front of his tunic that it was positively drenched. He was still warm and sweaty though, so it may well have done more good than harm.

He sighed as he shuffled away from the stream’s edge, only to wince when his wounded side and ribs protested the motions. He tried to stand, but his legs refused.

Too tired.

Too starved.

Well, at least he was moderately certain that he had made it to a place where he would not be easily found. If he had no idea where he was, he doubted his pursuers did.

Roman maneuvered himself until he was leaning with his back against a tree. His pack dug into his spine unpleasantly, but Roman found he had no energy left to take it off. He needed rest, but if he was going to close his eyes he needed to at least look around first. He didn’t know a lot under the fog of pain and exhaustion at the moment, but he did know that.

A wave of dizziness threatened to swallow him whole. Roman forced it away to survey as much as he could from his current position. On the opposite side of the stream stood the crumbling remains of some sort of wall, barely as high as Roman’s hip would have been had he been standing. Moss and knee-high grass almost hid it completely. It was hard to tell from where he was sitting, but Roman could have sworn it might have been part of a… an enclosure, of some sort?

No, foundations -- what remained of some sort of hut or tiny cottage.

Shelter.

Roman wasn’t sure how he managed to stand back up. It involved clinging to trees though. His boots, worn and cracked from too much time with heavy use but little care, splashed into the stream. Water soaked into them immediately, but much like his wet shirt, it was hardly unpleasant. Roman dragged himself forward until he was leaning heavily on the overgrown wall.

There was a gap in it, and he was grateful for that because his limbs felt too heavy to try and climb over.

He sat back down in the one corner that was relatively free of small shrubs and vines, pack still on his back. His head fell back against moss-covered stone without his permission.

Rest.

He needed rest.

Just a bit of fitful almost-sleep so he could keep going and find something to eat…

~ ~ ~

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, drifting in and out of consciousness. Fortunately, any sleep he might have slipped into was light enough to keep the nightmares away for the time-being.

He didn’t think he could bear seeing his friends’ blood splattered on the floors of his home again, the… the _pieces_ of bodies he couldn’t recognize left like discarded scraps…

He never wanted to hear screams like those he had heard that night ever again. 

And then just such a scream tore through the air of the forest he was sitting in, miles and miles away from the place where Roman’s life had been shattered.

It was as though there was lightning racing through his limbs. Roman should not have had any reserves left -- he _didn’t_ \-- but still he found himself jumping to his feet and running toward the sound.

It was dark and his feet caught on roots and he stumbled, but he kept going. He couldn’t _not_ , not when he had been too _weak_ and too late and too _useless_ the last time.

The scream had quietened, but Roman could hear ragged, pained breaths that were not his own, so he knew he had to be close.

“I’m coming!,” he yelled with air he did not have in his burning chest, “I’m almost there, hold on!”

He skidded to a halt when he finally, _finally_ found the source of the scream. The faint, silvery light that made it through cloud cover and foliage illuminated a person sitting on the ground, frozen with one leg drawn close to their chest and the other stretched out in front of them.

The stranger was alone.

No one was attacking them, no dark-clad mercenaries with blades stained red- 

Roman forced the images away by figuratively digging his nails into the sweet relief of _not there, not too late_ and pulling. Only then did he notice the reason the stranger had screamed and was now sitting still.

The bear trap looked old. Rusted and worn, but clearly still able to do what it had been designed to, if the way it was digging into the stranger’s leg was any indication.

“Oh,” Roman breathed, gaze firmly stuck to ripped fabric and the blood that soaked it. He took a step closer and the stranger flinched away. More blood spread around the wound as the trap’s jagged metal tore flesh and skin.

“It’s okay,” Roman hastened to say as he took another step closer and sunk to his knees, “I… I can get it open, I think.”

He did not receive an answer, but maybe that was just as well, Roman thought as he slid his pack off his shoulders. He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to hold a conversation at the moment even if he had wanted to.

With careful hands that only shook a little bit, he reached for the trap. Up close, the injury was even more gruesome. Roman had seen a few accidents like this happen and it was never pretty; he needed to get the trap open before it did more damage. He pried the torn fabric away from the skin to give himself some room to work with and tried not to feel the hot, sticky red that coated his fingers.

“Okay. Okay, I just need something to leverage it open,” he said, more to himself than the stranger, and pulled back to rummage through his pack. There was pitifully little in it given the magnitude of the journey he was undertaking, but at least he found what he was looking for easier because of it.

The dagger was tucked into a simple leather sheath and Roman left it on. The blade was sharp and if he slipped while so close to the injured leg, it would do considerable damage. With a small grunt of effort he jammed the dagger in-between the rows of jagged metal and started shimmying it into place.

“Get ready to pull your leg out,” he instructed and pushed. Old metal squealed and groaned. Roman was panting and straining. Just a little more, a little… bit… more… _come on let me manage to save someone one fucking time-!_

The leg was pulled back. As soon as it was clear of the rusted, blood-stained metal, Roman let go. The trap snapped shut around the dagger, but he had done it!

Something spread in his chest, something light and nice and almost enough to banish the throb of his injured ribs.

“Thank you.”

The stranger’s voice was somehow both shaky and firm. Pained, but not panicked. Roman felt a smile spread across his parted lips unbidden and he looked up.

Some greater cosmic force with a mischievous streak, or perhaps sheer cruel coincidence, decided to move the cloud cover at that moment. Moonlight brightened the forest floor and the stranger sitting on it.

It illuminated horns -- antlers -- and silver eyes with slit pupils.

It shone onto dark blue scales that dusted the forehead and cheeks.

Roman felt his stomach drop and once more the lightning seemed to fill his limbs.

He threw himself backwards, ignoring the pain as the motion put strain on his wounded side. At the same time he reached for the sword at his hip. His hands were slick with blood still, now mixed with sweat, and the handle almost slipped from his grip when he drew it. This was not Roman’s blade, the balance was all wrong, but he still managed to hold it steady where he was pointing it at the stranger -- the dragon.

“You’re a dragon,” he bit out in a voice that sounded strained even to his own ears.

The dragon nodded slowly. Equally as slowly it was raising its hands to shoulder height, fingers spread slightly. The pose would look non-threatening were it not held by a dragon.

“I… would greatly prefer not being stabbed for it.”

The sheer incredulity that sentence caused was enough to make Roman blink.

Slowly.

Definitely slower than was wiser while facing a dragon.

Instead of using the moment to lunge however, to try and brush the sword aside so it could sink its teeth into Roman, the dragon merely spoke again.

“My name is Logan. I would say that it is nice to meet you, but considering the circumstances that would not be accurate.”

Roman’s gaze flitted to the dragon’s leg where it had been downright mangled by the trap. Slowly, glacially so, Roman lowered his sword.

“I-,” he started, but never got to finish.

Out of the shadows to his left came a blur of motion and darkness. It collided with his side and slammed him into the ground with enough force to send him skidding across the leaf-strewn earth. A heavy weight, all scales and claws and teeth, pinned him, but Roman couldn’t make out the details -- the impact with the ground sent fire lancing through his ribs and the weight of his attacker against his injured side made it throb with agony that was painting dark spots across his vision.

Now would have been a good time, he thought dizzily, for that lightning to hit him once more, to give him strength he shouldn’t have so he could keep going.

It did not come.

Already awareness was slipping through Roman’s desperate grasp. Sound and light became distant at a rapid rate -- there was screaming, he thought, someone was screaming…

And then Roman’s battered body, exhausted and injured and starving, gave in. 


	2. Negotiation for a Life

“ _No!_ ”

Logan realized what was about to happen a heartbeat before the human did. It was too late, of course. Instinct still had him shout, even as Virgil’s dark, scaled body hit the human where they were crouched. 

The human let out a cry that could have been one of pain or surprise or both and then they were pinned under Virgil’s weight -- not struggling, Logan noted, completely limp but still he could see the flash of sharp teeth being bared to bite the human’s head off.

“Virgil, _stop!,_ ” he shouted again, trying and failing to get his injured leg to support his weight so he could move closer and _make_ his friend stop.

To Virgil’s credit though, he did still himself. He was still pinning the limp form of the human underneath his claws, but he did not move to end them again.

“ **They** **_hurt_ ** **you!** ,” Virgil growled. This shape always distorted his voice into an echoing, threatening sound, but this was the first time Logan got the impression that Virgil wasn’t trying to soften its effects.

“They did not,” he hurried to say as he fell back to sit on the ground now that it seemed he would not need to intervene physically after all.

“ **They had a sword pointed at you!** ”

Well, that part was true. 

“They didn’t use it. I think they were just… startled. They got me out of that trap-”

Virgil cut him off with a hiss: “ **They probably put that trap there to begin with!** ”

“No! No, Virgil, look,” Logan gestured toward the rusted over metal, the grass and moss that had grown around it, the whole reason Logan had not noticed the contraption before he had stepped on it in the first place, “This is old. It… probably belonged to whoever lived in that ruin by the creek.”

“ **They’re still a** **_human_ ** **and they’re still roaming around** **_here._ ** **What if there’s more?** ”

That possibility did send goosebumps up Logan’s back.

It was also incredibly unlikely.

“If there were, they’d have shown up by now. We made a lot of noise.”

Virgil grunted.

“They _helped_ me,” Logan reiterated, “And while they did get… defensive when they realized what I am, they didn’t actually attack. We could let them plead their case at least.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then Virgil huffed through his nostrils and eased some of his weight off the human. They did not stir. 

“ **Your curiosity’s gonna get you killed some day** ,” Virgil grumbled and Logan knew he had won. 

Virgil had struck right at the core of Logan’s motivations, of course. He had never met a human up close. Given the experiences Virgil and Janus had had in their encounters, he was glad for that, but he could not help but wonder. The opportunity to speak to an outsider, and a human at that, that was just too good to pass up. 

Not to mention, of course, that it would not be morally sound to repay the human’s aid by killing them. Logan was well aware that survival did at times require they bend those morals some, but killing an unconscious person who had just done them service, that would just be cruel. 

Virgil had apparently decided that the human was harmless enough for the moment to step off of them. His head lowered to investigate the crumpled body.

“ **They’re unconscious** ,” he concluded finally, in a tone that even the not-so-socially-adept Logan could tell was pleased.

“They’re hurt, I believe,” he commented, “There was blood on their side, and they winced whenever they moved too fast. Patton will be able to-”

“ **You want to bring them right into our home?** ,” Virgil cut him off, voice almost too flat for a question and decidedly unhappy.

“Their odds for survival aren’t very good if we leave them here.”

Virgil growled but did not actually argue. His objection to the idea was clear anyway, as was the fact he recognized Logan was right. 

Logan tried to stand again, this time more carefully. In an instant, Virgil had abandoned the human to be at his side. Warm, smooth scales pressed into Logan’s palm as he pushed his dark body under Logan's arm to support him.

“I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be careful,” Logan muttered, “We’ll take the sword. And there’s rope on the outside of their bag that we can use to restrain them. But we can’t just let them die.”

By the heavy exhale of air through Virgil’s nostrils, Logan guessed that his friend disagreed. Virgil wanted them all safe, wanted every potential threat to be eliminated before it could become reality. It was no small feat that the human had somehow managed to get past his watchful senses, though the forest _was_ rather big and even Virgil could not monitor the entirety of it, Logan supposed.

Still with one hand on Virgil’s flank, Logan moved over to where the human’s sword had fallen when they’d been pinned. He grabbed it only to realize that hilt was… sticky. Logan dropped it again, grimaced and wiped his hand on his pants. They were likely ruined anyway. 

Virgil huffed and craned his neck to take the weapon in his jaws by the blade instead. The human’s pack lay not far away and it did indeed have a coil of rope strapped to the side. Logan took it and shuffled over toward the crumpled form still lying on the forest floor, unmoving but for the labored rise and fall of breath. Virgil tensed, but did not stop Logan as he rolled the human over and began wrapping the rope around their wrists. It was probably unnecessary -- the stranger seemed to be well and truly out cold. And yet… and yet Logan understood why Virgil was so against letting the human live at all. They could not risk being careless. 

When he was done, Logan pulled himself up and started trying to drag the human up as well. His back was pressed against Virgil’s side, both hands under the stranger’s arms as he tried to get them up.

Virgil dropped the sword to speak: “ **What’re you doing?!** ”

“Well, they cannot walk and I cannot carry them-”

“ **You’re** ** _not_ putting a ****human on my back. No. No, absolutely not!** ”

It took several minutes of what Logan privately labelled “discussion” but which was probably closer to “bickering” before Virgil gave in. Yet more time passed before they managed to successfully maneuver both the human and Logan onto Virgil’s back.

They ended up leaving the sword.

~ ~ ~

Far above, the sky was just beginning to brighten by the time they made it back to the hollow. 

“ **The human’s still out?** ,” Virgil asked when the entrance came into view.

“Yes,” Logan confirmed after a careful glance at their slack features.

His own vision was getting just a bit hazy; Logan wasn’t sure if that was from his injury or if the situation was finally getting to him, but he did note the way his hands wanted shake whenever he loosened the tight clench of his fists around the strap of the stranger’s pack and the back of the human's bloodied tunic. 

The three of them barely cleared the entrance before Patton found them. 

“What happened?,” he asked with his hands clasped in front of his chest in a way Logan knew meant his brother wanted to fidget and was trying to hide it. He hid a wince as said brother made a small noise of distress at the sight of Logan’s leg. Already he was moving closer, hands outstretched to help, only to freeze.

“Is that…?,” he asked, but trailed off without finishing. 

“ **A human, yeah. And I’m not happy about it, because it’s a really fucking _stupid_ idea to bring them here**,” Virgil replied.

“They’re hurt,” Logan hurried to say, “They helped me, so we ought to at least heal them.”

Patton blinked slowly: “I- Of course! Come on, let’s get the two of you inside, Virgil, can you…?”

Virgil huffed and moved forward.

Logan let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. Patton was on his side, or at least a side that wanted to keep the human alive, too. He supposed it was no surprise -- Patton was, after all, compassionate beyond reason. In retrospect, that was probably why Virgil hadn’t wanted a human anywhere near him. If any one of their little family could be lured in and _hurt_ by someone they should all know was dangerous, it would be Patton. Because Patton would want to trust and he would want to _help,_ even when dealing with a _human._

Which was why he ushered them toward the large open space near his garden and had Virgil crouch down so he could help his passengers to the ground. The human remained limp as Patton examined them briefly before turning to Logan’s injury. 

“Virgil, can you get me th-”

“ **I’m not leaving you alone with** **_that_** _,_ ” Virgil snapped before Patton could finish, head indicating the human. Patton frowned and looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it.

“Fine. Okay. Just, wait here then. And Logan, try and unwrap your leg for me.”

Logan nodded in mute agreement as Patton hurried off to get supplies.

He returned shortly after with his arms full and set to work immediately. Careful hands washed out the wounds on Logan's leg, applied salve to the torn edges of his skin, and finally wrapped them in bandages. The clean white was far easier to look at than the lacerated flesh. 

There was a brief moment of hesitation from Patton, touch lingering against Logan’s knee. Logan brushed the tips of his fingers against the back of his brother’s hand and Patton visibly straightened, turning toward the human. 

“Oh! I’ve got this, don’t worry,” he said when Logan followed, “You need to rest.”

“I’ll help,” Logan insisted, just firm enough to hopefully stifle any objections. Surprisingly enough, it worked.

Patton returned his attention to the human’s form without another word.

Carefully, the two of them pulled up the stranger’s tunic. Patton sucked in air sharply. Logan kept his reaction far more controlled, but he, too, couldn’t help the wince.

Bruises littered the human’s flesh, some fading, some fresh. The darkest sat over their ribs and all of them had enough experience from their first attempts at flight to know what that felt like. Far worse however was the wound marring the stranger’s side, just above the hip. 

Logan had seen blood on the tunic, had known there was an injury under there, but this?

It wasn’t fresh, was the thing. Days old, if he had to guess from his limited experience, and very obviously infected.

It did not look like any attempt had been made to treat it.

At all.

The silence stretched.

It was Patton who finally broke it, voice shaky: “We… we’re gonna need more marigold.”


End file.
